


Welcome to Wonderland

by sparxwrites



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 2P, 2Ptalia, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Insanity, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-22
Updated: 2012-07-22
Packaged: 2017-11-10 11:56:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/466003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparxwrites/pseuds/sparxwrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not so much a rabbit hole as a mirror, but the principal is the same. England falls through a looking glass and wakes up in a world not unlike his own, where a smiling man named Arthur offers him cakes and bloodied tea... In a different world where none of the rules apply and anything goes, will he get out alive?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Welcome to Wonderland

England falls, a downwards plummeting sensation that is brought abruptly to a halt when he hits plush, plum-coloured carpet. And there, in front of him, settled in a ghastly blue floral armchair, dressed in a pink shirt and darker sweater, a wild grin on his lips, sits the mad hatter. “Hello. Care for some tea?”

He stares, and stares, for maybe a minute or more, and then gets to his feet. “Where am I?”  
The mad hatter giggles. “Wonderland, of course. Care for some tea?” And with those seven words, he has won round one.

The walls of the room are covered in more flowers, the kind found in the lounges of crazy cat ladies, but it’s mainly covered by mirrors, hundreds of them, glittering and glinting in the corner of England’s vision. The effect is disconcerting, and he has to stop turning to look at movements in his peripheral vision that are nothing more than his reflection. “Who are you?” He frowns at the mad hatter. “You’re… me.”

“No, I’m Arthur, old chap, although we certainly look very alike. I’m your double, your doppelganger, one could say. All you… _nations_ , isn’t it? All you nations have one of us.” He cocks his head to one side and smiles at England. “Tea?”

England just stares at him, and finally Arthur gets up and offers him his hand. England ignores it, gets up, smoothes down his own shirt and rearranges his emerald sweater, and scrutinises the person in front of him – or, at least, attempts to. The bright blue eyes that are staring at him, almost unblinkingly, put him off, and finally he gives up and looks up, not quite meeting their gaze but staring at a spot between Arthur’s eyes.

“Tea?” says Arthur, for a third time, and England shakes his head, teeth gritted in irritation.  
“No thank you.”  
“Cupcake?” There are a stand of them, beautifully iced and brightly coloured, one the coffee table, next to the teapot.  
“No, thank you,” says England again.  
“Torture?”  
“No, thank- _what_?” England does a double take, physically recoiling for a moment before blinking complete confusion. It takes a moment for him to regain control of himself, and when he does, there is a new wariness and fear, a sharp determination in his eyes. “Um, no thank you.”

Arthur looks both hurt and… oddly disappointed.

“Urgh,” he murmurs, flopping down into a nearby chair in a way that is decidedly too elegant. England watches him closely, watches him turn the small, delicate, perfect cupcake in his hands for a moment, examining it dispassionately, before pulling a piece off and consuming it, licking the crumbs off of his lips. “You’re all so...”

“So _what_ , exactly?” says England, and for some reason he can’t quite inject the venom he wants into his tone, and it comes out more curious than angry. He’s still standing – sitting feels too much like surrendering, like making himself vulnerable – in the middle of the room, arms crossed and brows furrowed, but there’s no proper anger there any more, just a mild annoyance and a lot of inquisitiveness.

“…Useless,” concludes Arthur after a moment’s thought, with a delicate sigh. Everything about him is delicate – his long, thin fingers, his posture, his cooking, the way he moves, his voice, the way he wrinkles his nose and smiles with just too many teeth; it makes him look almost doll-like, and along with the pale hair, china skin and bright blue eyes he could well be a doll.

England thinks of all those dolls in the horror movies America made him watch, and tries not to shudder.

He wonders if he himself looks quite so elegant and fragile as the person sitting in front of him – they are doppelgangers, after all, other than hair and eye colour – and then decides that no, his scars and messiness and anger probably ruin any chances of him looking half as beautiful.

Arthur has no scars, he notices, and considers this for a moment. Then he notices the small smudge of off-colour just beside his nose, and the corners of his mouth are tugged up into an amused smile as he realises his double must be quite the dandy, if he’s willing to use makeup to hide a few scratches.

“I mean, really, old chap,” continues Arthur, unperturbed, and if he’s noticed England staring then he says nothing, “if you’re not willing to be food, or fight me, or even give me a decent fuck, then you’re really of no use to me.” He swallows the rest of the cake in one mouthful and grins, friendly and genial and utterly terrifying.

England struggles to keep a straight face as he processes this new information. He can’t show weakness, he knows, otherwise he will be dead (or, at least, fighting for his life) in under a second. So he instead composes his face into one of careful neutrality – he doesn’t think he can quite manage a happy smile to rival Arthur’s – and grasps desperately around for an appropriate response. “That’s… all you want people around for?” He settles for polite confusion.

Instead, though, Arthur seems to be the one confused. Having finished the cupcake he reaches for his teacup, picking it up and cradling it with the tips of his fingers before taking a long, slow sip, frowning. England catches a glimpse of the cup’s steaming contents and has to swallow hard to control his suddenly twisting stomach; no tea could be that thick, or that dark, rich shade of crimson.

“What else are you supposed to do with them?” replies Arthur eventually, lowering his cup and dipping a finger into it, so the viscous liquid clings to his skin and drips slowly off of it. He brightens for a second. “Oh! I forgot torture, of course. Silly me.” He raises the finger to his mouth almost thoughtfully and sucks on it, very deliberately. “But if you don’t want to fight or be food, then you probably don’t want to be hurt.”

England can’t hold back a small wince of disgust. For just a second, Arthur’s eyes flash victoriously, and they both know it – round two has been won by him. England grinds his teeth noiselessly in annoyance and forces himself to relax even further into his neutrality. He refuses to lose round three.

He finally finds his smile, and forces it onto his face, a tight, thin-lipped thing that probably looks more like a grimace. “…You are, quite possibly, the strangest man I have ever met.”

“And you are also very odd.” Arthur inclines his head slightly, as one might acknowledge an opponent before a fight, and smiles. A softer, quieter smile this time, fewer teeth, just a glint of white under a rosy pink lip, but still just as full of insanity. “Most people would _love_ the honour of being my food.” He pauses. “Would… _die_ for it, even.” There’s something sinister about the dreamy look on his face, and England realises with a suppressed shudder that he’s not being metaphorical.

So England returns with a polite smile again, this time genuine and spurred by the thought of one-upping his double. “Somehow I doubt that,” he murmurs softly, barely within range of hearing, and is delighted when Arthur’s nostrils flare slightly and the skin around his lips tightens. Round three goes to him, England.

“Oh, but they _do_ ,” purrs Arthur only seconds later, leaning back into his chair and closing his eyes slightly, still cradling his now-cold cup of blood, and England has to admire how quickly he’s calmed himself and prepared for the next attack. He raises an eyebrow, indicating disbelief, but only slightly, enough for it to be obvious but little enough that if he decides to pick a squabble about it England will easily be able to deny it. He decides that, if called out on it, he’ll pass it off as a look of interest.

“They all beg for it, in the end.” Arthur’s voice is lazy, bewitching, layered with a grasping sort of sensuality, a barely-contained excitement and a need to bite and lick and rend and tear and _own_.  “Even you,” he adds, cracking one eye open and letting it wander over England’s body, not bothering to try and conceal the places it lingers on – which, disturbingly, includes his neck. “You’d beg for it – loudly, I’d imagine. The feel of my teeth on your skin. The touch of my mouth.” He smirks slightly, letting his eyes fall closed again and taking another sip from his cup. “You look like the noisy type.”

England is momentarily too stunned to do anything other than stare, and when he regains full control of his vocal cords he uses them to stutter out, “U-uh. No. I don’t think so.”

Arthur’s smile widens, revealing reddened teeth – although he quickly licks them clean, his soft pink tongue searching out every speck of crimson and guiding it towards his throat. “You sound very sure.” Suddenly, his eyes flick open, startlingly, violently blue, and England has to lock his knees in place to stop himself from taking a step back. “Care to put it to the test?”

“No.” He manages to stop his voice from shaking, this time, but only just, and it doesn’t seem to convince Arthur very much, as he leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees, locking gazes with England.

“Yessss,” he hisses, and somehow the soft noise sounds very loud and very threatening in the plush, carpeted room. The blue glimmer of his eyes is reflected all around the room in the mirrors, and England has to fight to keep himself from turning and trying to make sure every one of them is only a reflection. “Yes, you would. Curiosity is… such a _wonderful_ thing.”

England coughs, and forces a nervous upwards slant to his lips. “Ah, no, I am very definitely _not_ curious about this.”

Oddly, Arthur seems to take him at his word this time, as his lips come together in a small, disappointed, surprisingly child-like pout. “Not even a little bit?” he whines hopefully, looking for all the world like a kicked puppy, and with the blue eyes his resemblance to America is fairly striking. England has to dig his fingernails into his palms to remind himself that the blue is the wrong shade.

“…No,” says Arthur, very firmly, although – loathe as he is to admit it – with just a millisecond’s too much hesitation to make it sound very convincing.

Swallowing the last remnants of liquid from his cup and setting it down with a small _chink_ on the side table, Arthur pushes himself to his feet, and that unwavering gaze of his is _so_ much more disconcerting when it’s on a level height, England realises. “Then why are you still here?” Arthur’s voice is soft, concerned, almost, but there is a bright, hungry excitement behind that gaze.

England opens his mouth, pauses, finds nothing to say other than, “uh,” and closes it again. Arthur chuckles, high pitched and, if truth be told, slightly coquettish, advancing on him in a way that can only be called prancing, and England takes an involuntary step back. Round four to Arthur. He stands in front of England, arms crossed and eyes locked with his, just giggling softly to himself.

“Why. Are you. Still. _Here_ ,” he hisses, harsh and almost angry, although the hand that reaches out and runs fingers across Arthur’s cheekbones is soft and gentle and loving. It is the hand that makes Arthur flinch, in the end, not the voice, and as soon as he regains his mental faculties, he pushes it away with a nervous laugh.

“I’d best be going, now,” he says, trying to ignore the absolute silence in the room and the way his voice trembles, ever so slightly, and not out of fear – although, yes, maybe fear is the best way to describe it, but definitely not a fear of Arthur, but of what he means, what he _could_ mean. England takes a step backward, towards the door out of the lounge, away from Arthur, and turns around. “Goodbye.” His words hand in the air, frozen and audibly false, even as his feet make no attempts to move him towards the door.

“ _Wait_.”

England shivers at that voice, feels the words trickle down his spine and melt liquid-soft somewhere in the small of his back. A hand touches his shoulder, lightly, and though his voice babbles about needing to leave and how he _really should be going_ , his body cannot move.

“ _Wait._ ”

The command – for that is what it is, an order, a demand from both his double and his own body – sounds again, and this time even his breath stills. He stays perfectly still, eyes wide, as a warm, solid chest presses against his back, as arms slide around his waist and lock together in front of his stomach, as the brush of hair on his neck signifies a head being angled, as soft, wet, warm lips part and then close around his neck, as he feels a tongue run gently along his skin, as the faintest pinpricks of teeth begin pressing down, as his skin splits-

He turns around in a frantic flurry of movement, unable to take the tender violence any longer, and punches Arthur in the face.

His double, unsuspecting and unprepared, falls. England’s feet are finally reminded of their owner, and he turns tail and flees the room. Arthur lies there for a second, head resting against his own thick carpet and staring up at the while ceiling. He grins. And then he sits up, bringing one hand up and pressing his fingers into the brownish-red bruise already forming around his eye, and he whispers, “ _Beautiful_.”

He waits there a moment, and then realises that the sound of footsteps has stopped, and his grin widens into blinding triumph. “Darling, please come back,” he croons softly, standing up and using the same tone one would with a kitten, “I didn’t want to frighten you. Just to taste.” He sighs, almost wistfully. “I wasn’t even going to drink, not if you didn’t want me to.”

There is a minute where he thinks there will be no response, that England truly has left, and then a voice calls out, “Yeah fucking right,” and he _knows_ he has won. The triumph swells, like the strains of some unearthly melody.

“Oh, so you _didn’t_ leave,” he calls back, and there is both surprise and delight in his voice – some of it faked, but most of it real.  
“I will when I find the fucking door,” growls England back, from the other side of the wall – from the kitchen – and Arthur has to bite his lip to stop himself giggling again.

It doesn’t work. “Oh, you can’t- He he. He. Hehehe. H-he he. Oh _dear_.” Even he’s not sure whether he uses the word as a sign of despair or an endearment.

England’s head appears around the doorframe, followed by the rest of his body, and although he’s still doing a wonderful job of hiding his fear and confusion and exactly how far out of his depth he is, the cracks are already beginning to show. Arthur was forged in the heat of blood and battle and constant treachery, under high pressure; like a diamond, he will shatter before he cracks. England, though also born into battle, has known love and heartbreak and longing and family – purer, although not necessarily truer, than the achingly twisted tenderness of Arthur’s world – and is softer, like slate; find the right angle, and pieces of him will shear off.

Arthur has found the right angle.

“…Why are you laughing?” says England, softly, after a moment, and Arthur can feel the anger and frustration building under his voice, created from the confusion and powerlessness his double is surely feeling right now. The game they have both been playing has come to a head, and Arthur knows he must tread carefully now.

“Oh my dear,” he murmurs, voice low and rich and dark and enticing, “ _There is no door_.”

England freezes, framed by the doorway and backlit from the kitchen, those beautifully liquid-green eyes wide and confused and, although their owner will deny it, afraid to the core. His hair shines, and dust motes spin in golden flecks around his face as his red lips part, and then close once more when he can think of nothing to say. Arthur’s stomach aches again, with the need to posses and own and control, and it takes all his self-control not to cross the room and _grab_ him, force him.

When England finds his voice, he croaks out, “What the _bloody hell_ do you mean by that?” and it becomes quickly apparent that Arthur has won, not just this round but the whole game too. Now all he has to do is pretend he hasn’t. If he is to get England to stay, he knows that the other must think he has won until he has fallen too far to redeem himself.

“He he. There isn’t one,” he sings, not moving forward, just standing in the middle of the room. He will wait for England to come to him. “Only the mirrors.”  
And, sure enough, England walks forward – first a hesitant half step, and then another full one, and suddenly he’s paced across the whole of the room until he’s standing less than a meter away from Arthur. “What- How do you get in and out, then?”

“The mirrors,” says Arthur evenly, crossing his arms and resting his weight backwards onto one leg, leaning slightly to the side, relaxed and unconcerned. “Some lead to various parts of your world, some lead to other worlds… some lead to the homes of others from my world.”

England looks both sceptical and dizzy. “Right. You are insane.” There’s a dazed look on his face, and Arthur briefly wonders if he’s about to faint of start laughing hysterically.  
“The ones from my world, we use it find our prey in other worlds, and bring it back, to play with it here,” continues Arthur, giggling, deciding to play the dangerous game, deciding to see how far he can push before England slips or shatters or cracks so badly he collapses. He can’t decide which would be more fun, though, seeing it happen all at once, or seeing it happen slowly, insidiously – so he resolves to be content with whichever one he gets.

“…Prey,” says England softly, and there is determination and revulsion and confusion and fear, and a touch of something else, in his voice. “Why… why take people from my world?”  
Arthur scoffs at that. “Where _else_ would we find tasty prey from?” He pauses, nose twitching in something that may be disapproval. “Although I may be the only one who agrees with the tastiness, other than Francis. The rest of those _stupid_ people make such a mess and then waste all the good bits, I mean, _really_.”

He sniffs, definitely in disapproval, and England decides he just needs to give up on being surprised or disgusted because evidently the word _morals_ has an entirely different meaning here, or possibly no meaning at all. Certainly, Arthur doesn’t seem to understand the word _pity_.  
“Why take people from my world?” he asks, looking around the room at all the mirrors again and wondering whether they all go to different places – and, if so, how on earth he’s going to find the one that will take him home.

Arthur looks genuinely confused. “Where else would we find prey from?” he asks, frowning at England as if he is being dense, and England frowns back at him.  
“What about your… oh, maybe _your own world?_ ” The words come out sharper, more sarcastic and cutting, than he means, but to be honest he’s beyond caring.

There is a pause, and then Arthur blinks and his mouth makes an _oh_ shape before he starts giggling. “He he, oh no. Dear me, no. We’re the only ones left, you see.” He smiles, as if this is something to be proud of, and England stares at him in something that surpasses incomprehension. “That’s why there are no doors or windows.” Arthur gestures expansively at the mirrors and floral wallpaper that cover every inch of the walls, and there are indeed no windows. England wonders why he didn’t notice before.

“We _devoured_ out world. Only we, the doubles of the ones you call _nations_ in your world, survived. We were the strongest. We _survived_.” He repeats the word, slowly, eyes sparkling and tongue running across his lips, as if he’s savouring its taste.

England can feel it, now, feel the cloying insanity of the place, the way it’s been slipping inside his head, through his eyes and ears and nose, both stifling and sharpening his senses, and he shakes his head to try and rid himself of it. “How do I _get out_ of here? Back to where the _sane_ nations are.” He stresses the little jibe, no longer worrying about provoking Arthur, just wanting to get some kind of reaction, _any_ reaction, other than that blank, understanding smile.

His attempts are in vain. “Through the mirrors, old chap,” says Arthur, simply – and then elaborates, but not in the useful way England was hoping. “They go to many different places in many different worlds, though.”

“I think I’ll take my chances, thank you,” answered England stiffly, walking over to the wall of mirrors and inspecting them all, trying to work out some way of telling where they might go and failing to find them. They were all shapes, all sizes, all colours – plain frames, frameless, heavy brass frames, elegant frosting around the edges, swirling designs… not a label in sight. He wondered how Arthur remembered.

He reached out for one, to touch it, and Arthur caught his arm. “Many of them go to the houses of others like me, other doubles. And-” He paused, and grinned a grin that was both unpleasant and worried, “-many of them are not as friendly as me.”  
“Again, I’m willing to take my chance,” snapped England, the desperate urge to leave this place increasing, and he attempted to drag his wrist out of Arthur’s grip, but the fingers only tightened.

“Mattie, for example, likes to play with his food,” hisses Arthur from behind him, lips inches from the shell of his ear, “He’ll set you running through mazes, in circles, until you collapse, and then he will burn the life out of you. Francis will feed you, fatten you up, and then poison you slowly until you die foaming at the mouth.” He felt England’s tugging cease, and hurried on.

“Feliciano has a way with knives, while Ludwig prefers to work with his hands and fancies himself a surgeon. Antonio and Romano work together and are, I believe, famous in your world for their work with the Spanish Inquisition. Both Ivan and Gilbert will collar you and whisper sweet nothings into your ear until you are a willing pet – although Ivan rather cats to stroke, and Gilbert likes dogs to punish.” He paused, and let as smile curl his lips, although he knew England would not be able to see it. “Alfred, dear Alfie, your sweet little America, will tie you down and beat you into a bloody mess until you are begging for a bullet.”

“Not _my_ America.” The words are out before England can stop them, and he can’t stop the tremor in his voice, either. “Dear god, you people are insane.”

“So you see, all I want is some blood,” murmurs Arthur finally, lips close enough to England’s ear that they brush it’s lobe gently. “Is that _so_ much to ask?” His tone is tender, like the lover England’s never had, and it both repulses him and makes him ache.

“And then you’ll torture me,” he says coldly instead, wrenching his arm out of Arthur’s grip and driving a calm elbow into his stomach. The double doesn’t fall, just steps back with a softly stifled giggle, shaking his head. “Tell me how to get back to my world.”

“No, no, just blood,” purrs Arthur, the giggles growing louder, “and I already said, the mirrors, _the mirrors-_ ” He stops, cuts the words off with a snap of his teeth, and takes a deep breath to stop the giggles. “Just be sure to pick the right one!” He moves to stand next to England, and gestures grandly to the wall, as an art collector might when showing someone his collection.

“…I don’t suppose I could have a hint?” asks England dryly, raising an eyebrow and turning to look at Arthur.  
“Um, ah, no, sorry about that old chap,” he replies cheerfully. “Although I might be willing to bargain…”

England ignores him, and instead walks hesitantly over to the mirrors, pacing up and down the full length of the wall, scrutinising every single inch of polished, silvery glass. In the end, he realises it will still be a blind guess, but he wants to at least _pretend_ he made an informed decision. He’s absorbed in the curling detail of the wooden frame of a tiny mirror, barely bigger than his hand with his fingers spread, when warm arms drape over his shoulders and voice trills, “Decided yet?” happily in his ear. “Ooh, this should be fun.”

He jumps, instinctively pulling away from any kind of touch when his nerves are on such an edge. “No touching!” he snaps, trying to look authoritative and grumpy, but Arthur just smiles charmingly and understandingly back at him, infuriating.

Arthur giggles. The high, happy, childlike noise is beginning to set England’s nerves on edge. “Maybe whoever you end up with will let me come around and play with you! Ivan’s usually very good at sharing his toys.” There’s a dreamy look to his smile that England doesn’t want to think about, so he doesn’t, and instead turns back to the mirrors, teeth gritted.

“Do I just… walk into one, or what,” he says finally, fingers tracing square black mahogany frame of a long, thin mirror hung at an angle on the wall. The wood is smooth and polished under his fingers, but warped with age, and the middle of the sides bow in slightly. The glass is stained and cracked.  
“Mmmhm, yes.” Arthur nods earnestly, the same wide-eyed curiosity on his face as a child might have watching a magic trick. “But, as I said, choose carefully.”

England reaches forward, fingers edging towards the glass of a frameless mirror with whitish swirls around the edges of its silver expanse, and then stops suddenly. “How do I know you’re not making this up?” he demands, eyes boring into Arthur’s – the first time he’s properly met his double’s gaze since arriving. “How do I know that at least _one_ of these will take me home?”

Arthur shrugs, and for once he’s not smiling. “How do you know anything?” There’s an oddly philosophical note to his voice, which rings oddly with his usual excitement. “Maybe there _is_ a door, a hidden one, and I am lying. Maybe all of the mirrors lead to your world and I am lying. Maybe none of the mirrors lead to your world and I am lying. Maybe not. You must decide how desperate you are.” He hesitates, the corners of his mouth quirking up. “And how much you are willing to risk.”

England stares at him for a second and then, against all expectations, laughs. It’s a short, sharp, humourless bark, but a laugh none the less. “That was very… deep. For a psychotic cannibalistic murderer, I mean.”

With an offended sniff, Arthur shakes the hair out of his face and strikes a pose. “Oh, _mon cher_ ,” he drawls, in a very bad imitation of a French accent, and then returns to his normal voice with a grin, “I am not a murderer, nor a cannibal. I am a chef, and artist!”

The words echo oddly in England’s ears, and he remembers. “That’s what Jack the Ripper said,” he murmurs thoughtfully, almost to himself, and then blinks as Arthur bows with an elaborate flourish.

“Hello.”

He simply stares, uncomprehending, and Arthur sighs. “Oh, you really think all his beautiful work was done by _humans_? Oh dear me no. That sort of artistry takes talent and _practice_ , sweetheart. And those were only some of my earliest victims – I got bored of the whole pattern gimmick fairly early on.”

England can only gape – in fact, even gaping is a struggle. Part of him is screaming that Arthur lies, that it’s all lies, but the other part of him is remembering the cold fear of his citizens and the permanent taste of blood and hysteria when the serial killer had roamed his streets. “You- that’s not- He was- _What_?”

Arthur doesn’t seem to have noticed the sudden twisted upheaval going on in England’s head. He’s staring at the ceiling, perched on the arm of one of his soft armchairs, swinging his legs and kicking them against the flowery fabric with an absent smile. “And I’ve had _so_ much more practice since then…”

“…Right.” England pulls himself together with a small shake and a deep breath; stiff upper lip, he thinks, and something inside him tightens, strengthens. “Well. I’d love to say it’s been a pleasure.” He’s polite enough not to add _but it hasn’t_ , and instead chooses a random mirror – one roughly the size and shape of a head, with an elaborate dark wood frame, curls of flowers and leaves carved around it – and flattens his hand against it. He’s not expecting anything to happen, and, for a moment, nothing does.

With a sigh, Arthur pouts, looking upset and ever-so-slightly betrayed. “Oh, no, going already? What a shame. Ah well. Bye bye!” He lifts one hand and waves, a delicate wiggling of fingers. England’s mouth opens, a small, questioning _o_ , but before any sound comes out the world stretches and blurs around him, freezing and jolting like a paused video, and then the surface of the mirror ripples and he is gone.

Arthur stares at the point where he was, a small, almost sad, smile on his lips, and then his eyes linger over the mirror England had touched. And then, slowly, slowly, his eyes begin to sparkle and his grin widens and soon he is giggling to the empty room.


End file.
